


Sunshine State

by Zatnikatel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4565031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zatnikatel/pseuds/Zatnikatel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set some time in season 5, spoilers up to then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunshine State

**Author's Note:**

> First posted 2010, LiveJournal

_I hate Florida in fuckin’ August_.

Dean thinks it because he can’t say it, can barely even swallow because his throat is so dry he imagines it might look like those pictures of deserts he used to see in Bobby’s National Geographic magazine, sand split and rutted into crazy paving. There might even be bleached oxen bones laying in the arid landscape just left of his larynx, and to the right there are Bedouin trailing along on camels, led by Peter O’Toole and Zorba the Quinn, and—

“You’re thinking out loud,” Sam doles out mechanically. “You’re doing Lawrence of Arabia again.”

Dean huffs, returns to staring out ahead of them as they meander up forty-one, behind crumblies with their indicator lights stuck on permanent flash and just the tops of their tightly permed heads poking over the top of the driver’s seat. _Get out of the fuckin’ fast lane_ , he wants to holler, but he settles for pulling up behind an Oldsmobile and tailgating it so keenly that Sam slaps a hand down on his forearm.

“Jesus, Dean. Any closer and we’ll be able to see what radio station they’re tuned into.”

Dean bristles. "What the hell is she even doing still driving? I bet she’s operating the pedals with her walking stick. How can she even see out?”

He scowls, drops back a few yards, and then has to jump on the brakes with all his feet as a Tacoma veers across in front of them. He gestures obscenely and croaks out a stream of abuse in its wake, ends up sputtering and coughing, but when he spies salvation he skates across three lanes on two wheels like a Redneck born and bred, and bounces the car up a gravel incline, throwing up satisfying clouds of white dust behind them. _The Frosted Mug_ , and within five seconds of sliding his baby into the nearest parking bay, Dean is gulping down a cold one, slapping at the skeeters on the back of his neck, and asking the barkeep, _Bobbi-Jo-what-kin-I-git-choo-sweetie?_ , if she knows how to mix up a Four Horsemen and Hell Follows, because he remembers the days when those sonsofbitches were drinks and God knows he preferred them that way.

Bobbi-Jo is pushing fifty, squeezed too tightly into a pair of Daisy Dukes and a _Bike Week! Myrtle Beach! Bad Girl!_ tank top she stole from her granddaughter’s closet. She’s friendly too: by the time Sam is back from hitting the head, she’s onto her third marriage, _now Dougie, he never kilt no one, least not deliberate like, cuz that gun goin’ off wuz an accident_ , and just why the three old-timers and the gaggle of demon chrome sharing the truck stop are sitting at the farthest away tables is evident.

Dean comes back to reality when Sam gestures, and he extricates himself with some lame excuse he can’t even remember once the words leave his mouth. At their table, Sam fixes Dean’s tray of shot glasses with slitty, critical eyes.

“You sure that’s wise? Can’t be all that comfortable with your throat as bad as it is.”

“My throat’s fine,” Dean cheesegraters back irritably. “Anyway, it’s medicinal.” He gargles a mouthful of each glass to prove it, before snatching up an abandoned matchbook and lighting up the Bacardi with a flourish.

Sam’s hand snakes out, snatches the glass up and away, tips it out onto the gravel. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he snaps. “Your voice is hurting _me_.”

“It was to cauterize the—”

“No,” Sam insists, eyes glinty and mean.

Dean concedes, sitting back in his chair. It’s hot, a steamy, muggy heat buzzing with no-see-ums that whiz right up into his face. His tee sticks clammily to that spot between his shoulder blades, and he can feel sweat dripping down the small of his back and on into his crack. His socks are damp, and he can feel his toes crinkling up into lizard skin.

Sam gulps down a long mouthful of his beer, wipes his lips. “Anyway, I was just talking to a guy in the can who—”

“That what they’re calling it these days?” Dean scrapes out. "Talking to a guy in the can?”

Sam bitchfaces briefly. “Vern,” he says pointedly, raising a hand and nodding over Dean’s shoulder.

Dean turns and sees old-timer #three nod in return. The guy is missing his left leg below the knee, and Dean wonders idly if one of Bobbi-Jo’s husbands ripped it off in a fit of temper. He turns back to the clink of the car keys disappearing inside his brother’s fist.

“Vern said there’s a Walgreens about a mile up the road, we can get some meds there. And we should hole up, let you sleep it off.”

 _Too damn right_ , Dean is thinking ten minutes later, as he liberates a quart of Jack from its cruel prison in the liquor aisle and slips it into the cart under his Twinkies. “Comfort food,” he husks defensively when Sam balks at the checkout, and he drapes himself out across the bench seat when they get back to the car, downs a couple of ibuprofen with a whisky chaser. Upfront, Sam shakes his head and mutters darkly about _ulcers_ , but, “Cas will fix me,” Dean says loftily.

“Like he fixed Bobby’s legs?” Sam shoots back. “I wouldn’t count on it, Dean. He’s getting weaker.”

“No he isn’t,” Dean rasps, because it’s scorching sore in there now. “He’s saving himself for me.”

Sam snorts, but now Dean is thinking about it, the car's motion lulling him to drowsiness, he can remember his friend’s words, decisive.

 _You’re different_. 

He lies there and stares at the roof of the car, thinks about Cas giving it all up for him, killing for him, losing everything for him, everything he has ever known and held dear, going back into _antiquity_. He thinks about how Cas _is_ getting weaker, and he can't help shivering because of what it could mean for him, mean for his brother. Cas is their last line of defense, but he took three days to come round from their little trip back to the seventies, and now whenever Cas is nose-to-nose with Dean and staring at him like nothing else matters, Dean can see something else in the angel’s eyes that might be anxiety, fear, maybe even regret. And when he sees that, it sticks in his heart, because he thinks maybe he isn’t worth it.

“You’re thinking out loud again,” Sam says softly from the front. And then a minute later, “I’m pretty sure Cas thinks you’re worth it. I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

Dean must doze for a while, because the next thing he knows, Sam is shaking him awake, motioning over his shoulder.

“Best Western. Seems to be all there is.”

When Dean opens his mouth, his voice comes out like some desiccated death rattle, and the sting brings tears to his eyes.

Sam winces. “I’ll do the talking.”

Dean trails along behind Sam into the lobby, gapes at the price. “We don’t want to _buy_ the fuckin’ room,” he barely scratches out. “We just want to sleep in it. For one night.”

The desk clerk’s eyes widen into _Hazmat suit! Quarantine! Unclean!_ , and she recoils. Dean glowers at her for a moment before forcibly steering his brother back outside.

“We might just have to suck this one up, Dean,” Sam is saying. “You’re running a fever, you sound—”

“It’s low season, and the housing market is in the Pit here,” Dean wheezes. “There are eleventy billion foreclosures we can pick and choose from, squat for a night or two. Or a holiday rental, maybe even something with a pool. So start driving.”

_This is the life_ , Dean muses an hour later, as he flops poolside on a lounger, in a pair of lurid board shorts Sam found in one of the bedrooms. His baby is safely hidden in the garage, and the yard is secluded enough that they can’t be seen but not so secluded he can’t keep a close eye on the cute, skinny, _sweaty_ chick living opposite, who’s _sweaty_ , clad in cut-offs and _dripping sweat_ as she industriously and _sweatily_ mows her double lot with a pushalong. _Jesus, but it’s sweaty work_ , Dean thinks, and it gives him a warm feeling low in his groin that has nothing to do with his fever.

He feels his dick twitch, reaches down to give it a quick knead through the thin fabric of his shorts, and it nudges up into his hand, filling up so fast he forgets about his sore throat and grips the solid line of hard flesh more firmly, starting the slide of fingers that will—

“Sam tells me you’re unwell, Dean.”

“Jesus,” Dean croaks piteously, snatching his hand up from much more interesting pursuits to clutch at his throat, because he’s full sure it sprouted a coat of dryer fluff while he lay there birdwatching. 

Castiel eyes him thoughtfully. “Are you delirious too?” 

Dean flaps his hand wildly, hacks out something that was proper words when he thought it up in his head but comes out as the noise of plant machinery as Sam ranges up behind Castiel.

Castiel frowns, pondering Dean’s response for a moment. “I speak every language, yet I’m not familiar with that one.” 

“Yeah, it’s Wookiee,” Sam offers. “With a touch of Stevie Nicks and a sprinkling of Louis Armstrong.” 

Dick still at DefCon Two, Dean heaves himself up from the lounger, makes a grab for the towel hanging across the back of the other seat. As he does, the world starts to rock and roll around him and he reels. Hands catch him, and faces peer down at him.

“You’re extremely hot, Dean,” Castiel says. His eyes are doing that _anxiety-fear-nothing-else-matters-but-you_ thing, and his hand is suddenly gentle on Dean’s brow.

Dean snorts. “I knew you wanted me,” he slurs tiredly, and it all goes black.

The first time Dean comes round, he cracks the crusty stuff sealing his eyes to find himself cradled up tight against something that definitely isn’t softly female. In fact it’s hard and muscular, and he slants his eyes to see Castiel’s white dress shirt, spattered with something that looks regurgitated.

“Did I puke on you?” Dean mumbles.

“You did, Dean,” Castiel confirms neutrally. “Unfortunately I wasn’t aware that your request to talk on the big white telephone was an indication you wished to be taken to the bathroom to be sick.”

Dean swallows claggily, feels like he just ate a mouthful of ground up glass. “M’ sorry,” he whispers. 

“You don’t have to be,” Castiel replies, oddly soft-voiced.

“Throat. Feels like barbed wire. Hurts.”

“I know. Rest, Dean.”

Dean thinks Castiel might be rocking him, and he sighs and leans into it, telling himself he damn well isn’t snuggling with his angel.

The second time Dean comes round, he's shivering, teeth chattering. A gigantor hand is using a washcloth to sponge him down, and, “I don’t want to die, Sammy,” he hears himself mutter painfully. “Don’t want to go to Hell. Don’t let her get me.”

Sam’s palm is warm on Dean’s cheek. "Look at me,” he says, stern. “It’s over, done. You’re never going back there.”

“Sh-sh-ssure?” Dean stutters.

“I’m sure. Now drink this, it’ll make you feel better.”

Sam lifts Dean up, touches something to his lips. Dean grimaces at the taste. 

“Whassit?”

“Ginger tea, honey, lemon juice,” Sam reassures. “It’ll help. It’s natural.”

“So is cancer,” Dean grouses back, but Sam is on a roll.

“I found the recipe online. Grated ginger, freshly squeezed lemon juice. Manuka honey, it’s anti-inflammatory, Dean, and it’s a natural antibacterial agent.” Sam stops, eyebrow going up slightly. “Cas went all the way to New Zealand for the honey. I didn’t even have to ask, he just vamoosed the second I said you needed it.”

His tone might be teasing, but Dean ignores it, focuses instead on his brother’s hand, and, “This is a Dora the Explorer sippy cup,” he croaks balefully.

Sam smirks. “It’s easier this way.” 

And _what the fuck_ , it is. And Dean sucks down his natural throat remedy for no other reason than that his brother researched it online and made it himself, with honey his angel flew to New Zealand to fetch. And that gives him a warm feeling inside he’ll never admit to as long as he lives. “They should have sippy cups in bars,” he whispers. “And at rock concerts.”

The third time Dean comes round, he makes it as far as his duffel and the bottle of Jack. He downs a third of it before Castiel finds him curled up under the bed, hiding.

Puzzled blue eyes stare at Dean, and, “Why are you hiding under the bed, Dean?” Castiel asks.

Dean brandishes the bottle by way of an answer.

“I see.”

Castiel reaches into his trench pocket then, pulls out his own bottle. “I prefer Jose Cuervo myself,” he notes reflectively, as he starts unscrewing the cap, and suddenly all Dean can see is stoned, smiling future-Cas, hopelessly devoted and going to his death because of it.

Even though his head and his muscles ache, and his throat still feels like it’s being spot-welded back together, Dean wriggles out from under the bed and snatches the bottle away, aggressive. “No,” he growls. “No fuckin’ way. Not you. You don’t ever do this, _ever_. Do you hear me? I never want to see you like that again, never.”

Castiel stares back, and then sighs, his eyes gone a little wistful. “It makes the world turn quiet and disappear,” he murmurs. “But the world always comes back, and louder than before.”

Dean can feel himself listing over, comes to rest with his head on Castiel’s shoulder. “We’re not going to be those guys, Cas,” he promises. “I mean it.”

The _nth_ time Dean comes round, he feels better. He swallows experimentally, and it’s sore but it isn’t Fahrenheit 451 in there any more. He sniffs experimentally under the sheet too, and winces. He pushes up, a tad lightheaded, but he makes it to the bathroom and manages to drain the lizard without keeling over.

The house is quiet, but the doors at the back are open to the lanai and the pool. Outside, Castiel is floating on a lilo, wearing a pair of shorts even more lurid than Dean’s and looking way more built than Dean ever imagined he might be out of uniform. It’s unexpected, and Dean stares at his friend for a moment, all smooth and sacked out there, relaxed and unguarded in a way Dean has never seen him before. From nowhere, he gets a tight feeling low in his gut, like his dick is breathless all of a sudden. It’s the same feeling sweaty lawnmower chick gave him if he’s honest, but he forces it away.

Castiel opens a lazy eye as Dean lowers himself down on the top pool step with a groan. “Are you alright, Dean?” he asks. He lifts a languid hand up, and it’s holding a large cup of some brightly colored club tropicana brew with mini umbrellas and a slice of orange.

Distracted, Dean ignores Castiel's question, pointing at the cup. “What is that?” he snaps pissily, because even if he has been out of his head for God knows how long, he knows damn well they talked about it.

The reply is placid. “It’s a Tervis Tumbler. I believe they’re famous in these parts.”

“The drink, idiot,” Dean gravels out, because it still is sore in there after all.

“It’s a Shirley Temple.” Castiel raises his head up slightly. “It’s non-alcoholic,” he adds pointedly. Sam found the recipe on Babyzone.”

 _So he does remember_ , Dean thinks, and as reassuring as it is, it gives him a slight feeling of discomfort. “Babyzone?” he covers. “Am I still delirious?”

“I believe it’s a website for women who are with child,” Castiel says solemnly. “And you don’t appear to be delirious.”

Dean huffs and eases himself further down into the water, because if he needs anything after however many days in bed in the heat without washing, it’s a bleach job with chlorine. “Shirley Temple,” he muses. “Had to be named after some simpering little brat in ribbons and a party dress.” He shudders at the memory of Lilith, blots it out and focuses on soothing, closed-eyed bliss in water warmed by the sunshine. “Where’s Sam?” he broaches after a minute. “I’m hungry. Tell him he needs to do a Burger King run.”

“He’s doing something he described as weed whacking at the house opposite,” Castiel says. “The young woman who lives there is apparently without a strong man to do yard work, so your brother offered.”

Dean heaves himself out of the pool like a Discovery Channel killer whale leaping out of the surf to grab the nearest seal, reels dizzily as he squints through the trees. “I don’t see him.”

Castiel pushes up on one elbow, peers though the foliage himself. “He also referred to a plumbing problem that needed attention.”

“I’ll bet he did.” Dean shakes his head admiringly. “Sly dog.” He sits down again, trails his feet in the water. “I’m still hungry,” he complains after a moment.

Castiel is gone and back in the wink of an eye, board shorts and all. “Your Burger King meal, Dean,” he announces, setting the bag down. “There’s a large soda-type beverage included, unless you’d like me to mix you a Shirley Temple?”

Castiel is doing his measured stare, and for a second Dean wonders what happened to the booze, because he passed out in there, has no clue what the hell the angel did with it after he slung him back in the bed. He snorts, shakes his head. “The cola’s fine.” He wraps his chops around his burger, closes his eyes in appreciation as he chews, washes it down with the syrupy-sweet fizz. The sun is setting, and cicadas are singing, and, “Maybe Florida isn’t as bad as I thought,” he comments between chews. “Pool, good company. Cowmeat.”

Castiel considers, comes to sit next to Dean, pressing his bare arm against Dean’s in a way that’s frankly disconcerting. “Your Al Gore predicts that Florida will be submerged under water at some point in the distant future,” he offers.

Dean scowls. “Way to kill the mood, Cas.”

The angel shrugs. “Still, it seems like a good reason to appreciate Florida while we can. Without thinking about other things that might stop us from enjoying this peace and quiet. Even if it’s just for another day, perhaps we shouldn’t think of those things. And perhaps it’s good that Sam isn’t thinking of them either. That he’s also enjoying himself, seeing to his new friend’s plumbing.”

Castiel nudges Dean then, and when Dean looks, his friend is smiling at him. It’s more than his usual almost-smile, it’s a wide grin, and it twists in Dean’s gut for a minute because it reminds him of the way the other Cas smiled. But he smiles back, and even winks as he changes the subject. “You do know the plumbing thing isn’t really plumbing?”

Castiel is deadpan. “Sam said something about inserting a snake into her pipes to unblock them.”

Dean plants his hand firmly on Castiel’s back, sends him into the pool face-first, and he surfaces spluttering and thrashing. “You keep enjoying Florida, Cas.”


End file.
